Toxic Bones
by Chronology
Summary: It has been years since the defeat of Morgana; however, familiar enemies remain bitter for the scars they've attained and revenge is a hard bullet to dodge. The customary game of power remains unchanged; but now there's a new generation of chess pieces on the battlefield alongside the old—and they aren't planning on staying silent.


_**Chapter I. **Whispers Wear Midnight_

The brass hat stand wobbled irritably against the wooden floor as its familiar occupant rested once again on its curving antlers. The bowler hat settled tentatively on the edge of the hook, seeing as its owner was quite a bit too distracted to pay any mind to its precarious balancing act. The luxuriously fur-lined coat that would have normally followed the first item of clothing on the stand remained regally poised on said owner's shoulders which were now tensing rather rigidly in the new-found presence of the shadow in the corner.

There were always shadows in the corners, of course; how could there not be when no lights had been turned on and barely any natural illumination penetrated the heavy curtains sheltering the widows. The room itself boasted many corners in which darkness took to hiding when the hands of the clock directed the world towards nightly hours. There were always shadows in the corners; but this Shadow seemed to breathe and shift like a living thing which most shadows—or at least most normal shadows you would find in corners—did not do. Hence the Owner's apprehensive, straight-backed interest in that one edge of his living room beside the window ledge.

The Owner had been expecting the Shadow, of course—but not quite so soon, not quite so suddenly and not quite so silently either. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward from the hall to the living room, cane clutched rather tightly in one hand and placed forward before him as a warding gesture which the Shadow did not miss from its watchful station in the corner. The darkness shifted and the Shadow seemed to unhitch itself from the wall and stand in a mirror image of attention to the Owner.

A moment of silence followed; a pause to let both parties breathe and think over what was to come. The bemused Owner was staring to gain back the grounds of confidence and superiority he had recently lost to surprise and as for the distance he had yet to retrieve, it was obvious he was well prepared to fake it instead. A poor substitute, but a convincing one nevertheless, if the Owner's history were to play precedent. The Shadow on the other hand stood in stance of slack obedience and cunning nonchalance; though the tensing of its fingers settled over its folded arms proclaimed it ready to rise to action if the occasion were to call for it. The mute stalemate lasted for three shared heartbeats before the wooden floor creaked with the Owner's shifted weight.

"You broke through my wards. Impressive," the Owner commended the Shadow with the slightest curt nod in its direction; though the tone conveyed stiff boredom rather than praise. "You could have simply allowed me to arrange a meeting instead."

"I don't have time to arrange meetings; dropping in on clients better suits my time table. Besides, seeing that sort of expression of shock on Maxim Horvath's face is worth a fair bit, don't you think? Consider it a small display of the talents you've hired," the smirk was more than evident on the Shadow's face, unabashedly gloating at its small victory before the great Morganian.

"You are not at all what I expected," Horvath continued, smiling lopsidedly at the Shadow's jeer with one cheek twitching in barely withheld contempt.

A throaty chuckle echoed from the Shadow's corner at the comment. It moved forward towards the sorcerer and the darkness that had cloaked it so tenderly before was ripped off like a discarded cloak, shredded to tatters by the thin line of artificial city light that had escaped the chokeholds of the heavy curtains.

"Yes, that does tend to confuse people," the heavy, lurid voice of the Shadow added with a simper towards the elder man, "But then again, looks tend to be deceiving where most things are concerned."

There was another pause as Horvath stood to survey his nighttime visitor in the dim light of the room. The Shadow was… Absolutely nothing like he had imagined. Though, perhaps, that was the very point. He had hired someone who would seem inconspicuous in a crowd, someone who could hide in plain sight and someone who—despite all that—was still powerful enough to get the job done. The Shadow _seemed_ to fit the first two categories well; though the third was still being placed under scrutinising assessment. Reputations were often misleading and although breaking through the wards placed in his private home was genuinely impressive, it was not solid proof. The most upsetting part was that he would only have a couple minutes to decide on whether the Shadow was the right fit for his plot, or whether he should have another brought in. If this Shadow was to fail, there would be no chance of sending a second with the same element of surprise.

"Indeed," the sorcerer mused, dragging out the word as his dark eyes grazed his guest most discerningly.

A similar examination had been taking place from the other side of the room; although this evaluation was much more lacking in urgency. The Shadow had already seen its employer in the full light of day during brief, covert drop-ins to be sure of his authenticity and _his_ reputation was a great deal more transparent than its own. Transparent and deadly; the Morganian stood at the very top of his kind and though dormant for several years now, no one could doubt his prowess. This particularly sly entry into the game of magic and power was proof of that. The Shadow was, quite frankly, more than a little charmed to have been chosen and more than greatly curious as to why.

"Well then, shall we talk business?" Horvath asked the Shadow as if reading its mind, finally shrugging off his heavy coat and setting it beside his ebony bowler hat on the brass stand behind him. The motion itself could have either been a sign of trust and comfort in the presence of the Shadow, or a gravely powerful boast of confidence. Either way, the Shadow unfolded its arms and bowed its head graciously.

"I only ever talk business. So, what is it exactly that you've hired me for? You were quite vague in your letters."

"Rightly so; this sort of affair requires a certain amount of secrecy." There was a slight pause as Horvath's heavily expectant gaze was raised back towards his unanticipated guest, "You understand?" It wasn't a question.

Cane knocking imposingly against the floor beside him with every step, the dark magician moved towards his bookshelf and bared his back towards the Shadow's corner; remarkably still not bothering to turn on any lights. The ominously thick darkness swarming the room only seemed to add further weight to his next words, "I want you to get rid of someone for me—someone important."

Having carried out several different kinds of 'getting rid of', the Shadow knew very well that Horvath's tone implied the more permanent kind. A well-defined jaw clenched reflexively at the thought; something like this was to be expected although certainly not hoped for—thievery would have been preferred to assassination. The tricky part was that the latter usually paid better, leaving the Shadow to feel quite conflicted between money and morals. This time the decision was made easier by the status of the employer.

"Who?" the question echoed from the onyx-enshrouded junction of the room as the visitor leaned back and away from the muted synthetic brightness of the window.

The Morganian continued to search lazily through his selection of tomes, most covered in thin layers of dust while other remained untouched by the unclean contaminant due to recent use. Recent and constant use if the condition of the binding was to be considered. Their movement filled the air with a scent reminiscent of ancient times and wiser days, parchment pages crackling like aged, stiff cartilage in protest as they were disturbed from their long slumber.

"Tell me, Basilisk, what do you know of the Prime Merlinian?" Horvath asked his midnight caller, speaking measuredly and without much notice as his brows furrowed from the effort of making out ancient lettering in the pitch of the room. Giving up on the fruitless prospect, he raised the tip of his staff towards the volumes.

The ethereal blue gem crowning the staff glowed with a wicked, fiery sapphire light, providing enough illumination to make out the twisting characters settled on old leather spines. The metallic gold, black and crimson typography identifying the books seemed to dance in the radiance of the small spell, twinning and crowing with joy at their reunion with their old friend. Even from the far edge of the room, the Basilisk could see the miniature sparks of energy flittering like lost lightning bugs in between the man and the bookshelf.

"The Prime Merlinian? You mean the man that holds Merlin's ring?" there was nothing but candid surprise in the tone of the questions voiced as the speaker continued to look upon the supernatural glow of the spell. Hearing no response from Horvath, it continued to regurgitate the gist its knowledge about the famed sorcerer as asked. Blind obedience often went a long way with men like him.

"I know he defeated you and Morgana le Fay a long time ago, sent you into hiding they say. He's been fighting Morganians alongside Balthazar and Veronica Blake ever since and I've had my own fair share of dealings with his followers—clients and targets alike. I've heard news of his Merlinians and even Blake, but nothing about the man himself for years now." The Basilisk cast a cautious gaze towards its employer's direction with one brow arching crookedly in bewilderment, "Why? Are you suggesting that my new target is the Prime Merlinian?"

"Not quite," Horvath clarified. He finally set his eyes squarely on the timeworn title of his choice, grabbing onto the spine with thick digits and tearing it apart from its conspirators. The glimmering magic disappeared as the cane's light drew away from the lower shelf and back to the side of its master. The sorcerer himself rose to his full height by the staff's side as he turned to face the Basilisk with stern interest. "You said you took Merlinians as clients? Merlinians that follow the Prime?"

Even from the shadowed corner of the room, Horvath caught the small smirk from his guest as it rolled its eyes impassively and crossed its arms over its chest, "You know I don't discriminate between sides; clients are clients. Besides, the good ones never want to get their hands dirty."

"Is that why they call you Basilisk? You change your skin to suit the occasion? Or is it because of your spotless record of leaving no witnesses?" a taunting grin contorted the Morganian's face as he cocked his head to the side in mock question.

"They call me Basilisk for more than one reason," the stranger mused quietly in a tone resembling pensiveness rather than vanity as would have been expected, "Now tell me what this job has to do with the Prime Merlinian."

"His name is David Stutler," Horvath continued on, dismissing the small verbal encounter and shuffling his heavier girth towards the table in the middle of the room.

The large tome thudded over the glass-top table sitting tranquilly at the centre of the living space. The clear substance shuddered chaotically with the weight and echoed a clanging, metallic sound against the steel skeleton that supported it. The movement and the sound acted as a siren song for the Basilisk and it dropped its crossed arms, approaching the table with leisured steps as wide eyes which reflected the blue light of the staff with its nearing.

"_Dave_," the dark-haired man spit the name as if it were a toxin to his tongue, "Had a fast a succinct rise to power and fame after defeating Morgana; that much I'm sure you are already privy to. What you are probably not so familiar with is the fact that he _completely_ disappeared off the face of the earth approximately twenty years ago; even my most notoriously sharp spiders could not catch even a whisper of where he'd run off to. His Merlinian goons remained active and Blake was spotted on several occasions; but the Prime Merlinian was practically non-existent."

Horvath's barely withheld disgust at his enemy marred his face and etched itself into the lines of his skin as he continued to slowly browse the pieces of parchment held loosely together by the ancient leather binding. His grimace morphed his visage into one of immeasurable despise and scorn, the crooked shadows cast by his glowing staff enhancing the dreaded expression of loathing in the dark as his fingers caused the frayed pages between his finger to crinkle and hiss in remonstration at their manipulation.

"To be honest, I was begging to think he had died without me being able to take any part in it," the dark sorcerer's eyes sparked with irritation at the thought, ruminating over the overwhelming and manic helplessness that had taken him over at the time. Never again; he had waited much too long to approach him after Battery Park. This time, he'd be sure to strike the iron while it still burned white with heat.

"In fact, I was trying to cope with the tragedy of the fact until I heard his name again. Barely a month ago, one of my spiders informed me that he'd returned to New York; practically next door to this very apartment if you discount several kilometres," a dangerously low, rumbling chuckle shook the man's chest and send even the most ominous shadows in the room cowering with fear, "The very thought makes my blood boil."

"Why did he return?" the Basilisk's tone hinted its fascination at the information relayed with quite the look of curiosity brimming over its open expression.

The magician was acting exceptionally fast and unlike himself if he had truly only gathered news of the Prime Merlinian's reappearance a month ago. Horvath's venomous rage could be felt like a small sun's heat waves from across the table and seeing such a powerful man so passionately hateful could make anyone inquisitive over the subject that could trigger such emotion. After all, the Basilisk had received its first letter from its new employer only a couple weeks earlier in England before flying to New York to make his acquaintance now.

"I'm not entirely certain," the sorcerer sighed in artificial longing as he finally settled on one page in his book and spread out the two leafs with both hands in a motion resembling a caress, "But I _do_ know it has something to do with this."

The book was rapidly rotated by its owner to face the Basilisk across the glass table. The old leather squeaked in protest against the clear solid and as the stranger leaned in to better survey the contents of the page. A strong scent of matured parchment and ink resurfaced from the text, appearing to have become more potent after being handled. It didn't take long for the Basilisk to recognise the familiar pages of intricately woven calligraphy and delicately crafted artwork. What the guest could not understand, however, was why Maxim Horvath had opened up a copy of the Encantus to the series of portraits displaying each of Merlin's apprentices.

In fact, it took quite a few seconds for the Basilisk to realise what was off about the image—the Prime Merlinian's portrait was surrounded by light. It wasn't deliberate like a white outline; instead the parchment seemed to be smudged by powder or perhaps an ivory pencil. It was odd, to be sure, but even after having slaved over thousands of magical textbooks throughout the years—including the Encantus itself—the Basilisk had no idea what it could mean. That only served to raise more questions than answer any.

"Yes, yes… It's quite puzzling, is it not?" Horvath's low, sly voice resonated from the opposite end of the table, "He's the first Prime, so naturally there's no precedent to fall back on. When Merlin died the portrait faded black, so obviously he's still alive. I almost went mad in an attempt to understand; but then I started to do the math."

A large, wicked grin of yellowed teeth was flashed at the image of the Prime Merlinian from behind the illumination of the blue gem crowning Horvath's cane. "Don't you see? The bastard disappeared approximately _twenty_ years ago—a man like that would have never abandoned post unless he was worried about something more important. Something he wanted to protect more than his cause. He was fine protecting his wife during the conflict, so this must have been far more _delicate_ situation."

The Morganian let out a putrid laugh at his own genius, dark eyes growing more and more obsessively large as he spoke, "What would a man want to protect more than anything else in his life? What could possibly change the Encantus' portrait of the Prime Merlinian if he's still alive?"

"A child."

The two barely emitted words slipped out of the Basilisk's mouth as instinctively as if they had been a cry of surprise. A penetrating silence followed as everything within the room—including its two occupants—remained perfectly still.

It all made perfect sense now, of course—including the hellfire passion teeming throughout Horvath's entire frame. The Morganian was an opportunist and had no qualms with dealing low blows. This was—to say the very least—a very low blow. He couldn't go after the Prime, so he went for the child instead. _And so the iniquity of the father passes unto the children… _Didn't the Exodus say something of the kind? It wasn't moral; but neither was killing for money in the first place so there was nothing to be argued. A job was a job after all, and the famed assassin had certainly carried out grimmer tasks.

The Basilisk's jaw clenched again, hands falling away from the cool of the glass and clasping rigidly behind its back. It took a step back and set its shoulders squarely towards the dark-haired man, stealing away from the cold blue glow of his cane and settling back into the comforting folds of shadows enwrapping the room. Hooded eyes stared back into glimmering dark ones and just like that, there was a mutual consensus of continuation.

"Yes, a child. Taking into account the number of years within Dave's absence, it's now of age; which would explain why the Encantus is preparing to replace the old Prime Merlinian with the new one. Though I can't imagine why it hasn't taken up the torch already; I'm even more curious as to why the fool returned at all…"

"It? You still don't know the gender?" the Basilisk asked sharply, brows coming together in disapproval.

"I don't care about the gender!" Horvath snapped each word under his breath as if it were an individual sentence. He glowered silently at the stranger across from him before huffing out a sigh and continuing in a dangerously low tone of voice; the adrenaline within seemed to rise with only the mention of his plot. "I have an address, I know where they are but I can't approach them—the Prime would no doubt lock me in another Grimhold if I stepped within a kilometre of him. I need you to go in my stead and kill the Prime Merlinian's child. I want David Stutler to suffer as I have suffered! I want to see him ripped apart!"

The magician's words rand out clearly throughout the living space. Horvath's knuckles seemed to turn to ivory with the pressure of being held into such tightly coiled fists, one resting on the table while the other wound itself around his staff. His body was a mass of tensing muscles, each roaring with feverish wrath. The Basilisk could see it clearly now—the absolute lust for revenge swarming the sorcerer's eyes, painting them blacker than the night sky outside. It was fearsome.

"Very well," the Basilisk bowed its head in a long, respectful nod of agreement, "I'll take care of the child; but it will cost you much more than what I originally asked—this is the Prime Merlinian's offspring, after all. I want to know the pay is worth the risk."

"Fine, fine, I don't care how much it costs—I just want it done and done fast. Who knows how much longer they'll be here for," the fervour in Horvath's voice and the wildly staccato edge to his words marked him as utterly unstable. This was not the same man who had aided Morgana le Fay's rise to power; neither was he the same man who had walked through the door several minutes prior—this was the face of an obsessed manic.

"Increase my pay by sixty percent and we have a deal," the Basilisk commanded firmly as it unclasped its hands, "Including my starting hire which I'll be expecting you to have prepared by tomorrow morning."

"Sixty?" the ancient sorcerer muttered disgruntledly, brows bridging together as he shuffled awkwardly in place, "Greedy little creature aren't you? I agree to your terms; just finish it fast and quiet like you usually do. If I'm satisfied with the results, I'll be calling you for another job—you understand?"

"Yes," the Basilisk raised its hand parallel to the table, fingers extended with an illegibly blank expression masking its features. "Do we then have a contract in accordance to your stipulations and mine?"

A low, base chuckle reverberated from Horvath's chest as he offered his own arm to match the Basilisk's. His thicker, sweating palm collided with the one of his guest's and the two hands clasped each other firmly, "We do."

There was a small flash as the Rings of the two sorcerers in the room sparked with the enchantment of the mutual incantation. It was a synchronised, chaotic blaze of flameless fire that—for the brief moments between birth and death—lit up the entire room in a kaleidoscope of conflicting colour and static white noise; finally revealing its occupant's true forms to one another. Horvath's own worn and weathered face seemed to only grow older in the revealing manifestation of light. Long shadows highlighted the creases of his skin like ebony spider webs, deep circles of grey were painted under his eyes like watermark stains and the paleness of his age-spotted complexion fared no better in the spotlight.

The dark sorcerer's brows raised in mute surprise as he finally saw the true face of the Basilisk in the brief light of the small enchantment. Though the nature of its namesake was nothing but an exaggeration, its appearance was a shock to behold nevertheless. The midnight visitor smirked in reply to its employer's expression and just as the Rings snuffed out their fires like dead candles, it disappeared from sight.


End file.
